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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24132538">Indistinct Chatter</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/leekindawrites/pseuds/leekindawrites'>leekindawrites</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Shameless (US)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, Angst, College/University, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, High School, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Maybe HAppy ending, Smut, inspired by normal people by sally rooney, i’m not the greatest writer so pls don’t judge me, v good book/series check it out, we’ll see it depends on if i’m in a good mood writing the last chapters</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 17:01:47</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,770</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24132538</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/leekindawrites/pseuds/leekindawrites</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“You don’t talk to me at school.”</p><p>The smile fades from Ian’s lips. No filter. He can feel the heat in his cheeks and he clears his throat, eyes now looking anywhere but at the boy sitting on the counter. Mickey didn’t seem angry. It was said as casually as someone talking about the weather. Quite clammy today, huh? Hot as balls. Looks like it might rain. You don’t talk to me at school. Heard it’s meant to snow.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ian Gallagher &amp; Mickey Milkovich, Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>45</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter One</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>hi, hello, hey. this is my first gallavich fic in a really long time. like realllllllyyyy long. i finished the book and then the series normal people by sally rooney and i was quite inspired. so this fic is inspired by normal people. (it’s a great book and series, check them both out!!)<br/>the overall plot is similar but i’ve made it my own. (dw, sally rooney, i ain’t about to catch a case.) i hope you enjoy!! honest feedback is always welcome &lt;3</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s Mickey that opens the door when Ian knocks that Tuesday afternoon. He greets Ian quickly, turning on his heel and heading back down the corridor in the direction Ian assumes he came from.</p><p>“Come in. She’s in the kitchen.”</p><p>Ian watches him walk away. No thanks, he thinks, I’ll wait here. His resolve lasts all of maybe fifteen seconds before curiosity gets the better of him. Fuck it. He steps inside and the door shuts with an unnecessarily loud bang behind him. He’s never been inside the Milkovich house before, but he’s heard the stories. White marble flooring, expensive portraits, the grand staircase, the chandelier. The grandeur of it all had been slightly exaggerated, he notes. There’s no chandelier. But, funny enough, he’s never felt poorer. He hesitates in taking a step and wonders just how the fuck it’s possible to be intimidated by a person’s flooring. He takes off his shoes. </p><p>He starts down the corridor Mickey headed earlier, eyes taking in the art gracing the walls as he passes. He knows the Milkoviches probably paid a fortune on these pieces. Spent more money on one portrait than Ian will see in his entire life. He furrows his brows. If he had that kind of money, he wouldn’t spend it on things so pointless. He’d get Fiona a car, so he didn’t have to drive her everywhere anymore. He’d get Debbie that new iPhone all her friends have. He’d pay for Lip to go to college — God knows he’s smart enough for it. The possibilities were endless. He knows he definitely wouldn’t waste a cent on some piece a hipster most-definitely splattered with dark paint as a way to showcase his ‘depressive thoughts,’ or some pointless portrait of a person he didn’t know, I mean what’s the point? He’s sure Mickey doesn’t know the name of any of these people. Having the eyes of painted strangers following him through his halls everyday. Ian doesn’t think he’ll ever understand rich people. But hey, when you have money to burn, right?</p><p>Fiona is emptying the dishwasher when Ian walks into the kitchen. Mickey is sitting on the counter, a jar of Nutella in one hand and a small spoon in the other. He has some Nutella at the corner of his mouth and Ian is about to point it out before Fiona speaks and nabs his attention.</p><p>“Hey sweetness, I’m just finishing up.” She’s folding laundry into a basket now. “You cool to hang around for a minute?”</p><p>He nods. He has nowhere else to be. “No problem.” His gaze flickers to Mickey, noting that the Nutella on his lip is gone. He must have realised himself. He looks back at Fiona, giving her a small, reassuring smile.</p><p>She looks tired but she returns it. Hair has fallen from her ponytail and is framing her face. She’s worked in the Milkovich house as a housekeeper for seven months now. She doesn’t hate it. Ian thinks they could pay her more for all she does, though. But she doesn’t have to work three jobs anymore and she doesn’t expect Ian and Lip to contribute their entire pay-check towards the bills like they used to — plus their property tax bill hasn’t been paid late since the Milkoviches employed her. So, he guesses it could be worse. She pats his arm as she passes by.</p><p>“I won’t be a minute.”</p><p>And then he’s alone in an unnecessarily huge kitchen with Mickey Milkovich and he suddenly wishes he had waited outside like he initially intended to. Mickey scares him. Not in an aggressive or threatening way but he’s just so…. intimidating. He’s reserved but argumentative. He keeps to himself but is loud. He has no filter. He’s the smartest person in school and he walks around like he knows it, is proud of it. He’s beautiful. He makes Ian nervous. He lives in the biggest house this side of the Chicago river. He’s the rich weirdo with the rich parents. He gets picked on a lot. Ian has never picked on him but his friends have. He tends to keep his focus to the floor when that happens, not bothering to look up, to engage. He finds it pointless.</p><p>A small stain on Mickey’s shirt catches his attention. Must have dropped some Nutella, Ian thinks. He remembers hearing a story going around school once that Mickey spilled some yogurt on his slacks during lunch one day and Lance Peters walked in on him in the boys bathroom in just his boxers, holding his pants under the hand-dryer. People mocked him for days. Mickey didn’t give a fuck. Ian didn’t see the big deal either.</p><p>“Want some?”</p><p>Ian looks up to a jar of Nutella extended towards him. He shakes his head, politely.</p><p>“Suit yourself.”</p><p>It’s quiet for a moment.</p><p>“Got our algebra results today. How’d you do?” Mickey’s voice cuts through the silence.</p><p>“Uh,” Ian lears his throat. “95.”</p><p>“Not bad.”</p><p>It’s silent again. Ian watches his lips wrap around the spoon. He smiles slightly. “How did you do, Mickey?”</p><p>“Got 100.”  He says it likes it’s the most obvious thing in the world. And perhaps it is. If Ian had to guess, that’s certainly the result he would have chosen anyway.</p><p>“You’re really smart, Mickey. Smarter than me.”</p><p>“Don’t be mad.” Mickey’s smiling now, a sight Ian doesn’t recall ever seeing before. It’s not unpleasant. “I’m smarter than everyone.”</p><p>Ian starts to laugh, a soft chuckle. It’s not a lie. Mickey’s laughing now too. Ian thinks it might be one of the best things he’s ever heard. </p><p>“You don’t talk to me at school.”</p><p>The smile fades from Ian’s lips. No filter. He can feel the heat in his cheeks and he clears his throat, eyes now looking anywhere but at the boy sitting on the counter. Mickey didn’t seem angry. It was said as casually as someone talking about the weather. Quite clammy today, huh? Hot as balls. Looks like it might rain. You don’t talk to me at school. Heard it’s meant to snow.</p><p>Ian doesn’t talk to him in school. Nobody does, unless it’s to sneer. Ian doesn’t want the attention that comes with befriending Mickey Milkovich. Only a few more months until graduation. He wants to keep his head down and stay out of people’s way. He has his small circle of friends and he’s fine with that. Mickey could have ratted him out by now. Told people they’ve spoke occasionally, that Ian has been to his house. He could have made things really shitty for Ian at school. But he hasn’t. He meets Mickey’s eyes.</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>Fiona chooses that moment to renter the room and interrupt them. But Ian is glad. He doesn’t think he would have known what to say anyway. I wish you weren’t the way that you were? I wish things were different? I wish I didn’t give a fuck about what people thought of me? I wish I knew why I want to hold your hand so badly?  Their eye contact hasn’t wavered.</p><p>“Mick, can you tell your mom I’ll tackle the guest bathroom tomorrow?”</p><p>Mickey looks away, now focused on Fiona. “No problem. See ya tomorrow, Fiona. Thanks for today.”</p><p>Fiona walks towards him, pecks his cheek and tussles his hair. Ian keeps staring. Mickey looks back at him. </p><p>“Bye, Ian. See ya at school tomorrow.”</p><p>He’ll see him but they won’t speak. They’ll pass each other in the hallway on their way to class but Ian won’t look at him. Ian nods at him anyway. Fiona throws another goodbye over her shoulder and they both walk down the corridor, leaving the house.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“You could have said goodbye to him.”</p><p>Fiona’s voice breaks through his thoughts. The only noise in the car had been the radio. He looks at her, confused before focusing his gaze back on the road in front of him. “‘Mickey? I said goodbye to him.”</p><p>He hears her sigh and sees her rest her head against the window out of the corner of his eye. “You could be nicer to him. He doesn’t have an easy time at school.”</p><p>Ian says nothing.</p><p>“People are so cruel to him. And for what? Because of who his parents are? Because of the family he was born into? You can’t choose your family. Hell, if we’re judging people for their parents, why the hell don’t we get a hard time? I’d take Terry and Laura Milkovich over Frank and Monica Gallagher any day.”</p><p>Ian speaks then. “Nobody envies us, Fiona. People are mean to him because he has a life people want. He’s the only rich guy in a school full of poor people.” He shrugs. It’s always been kind of obvious to him why people are so mean to Mickey. </p><p>“Do you talk to him, Ian? In school?” He can feel her watching him now. </p><p>“No.”</p><p>It’s quiet for a minute, noise from the radio floating out of the speakers and filling the silence. She’s sighs again, only this time it’s louder. She rests her head against the window. </p><p>“I don’t get it. So stupid.”</p><p>He doesn’t disagree.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter Two</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>just a few things real quick;<br/>1. mickey is an only child in this fic. mandy, iggy, colin, etc don’t exist in this universe<br/>2. mickey’s mom is alive so say hi to laura. she isn’t great tho, sorry<br/>3. people know fiona works for the milkoviches, it’s not a secret<br/>4. things will make more sense and pick up soon i promise okay don’t give up on me<br/>okay ENJOY!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Three weeks later</p><p> </p><p>Mickey wakes up early Friday morning thinking he might style his hair today. He opens the bathroom cabinet and closes it just as quickly. Fuck it. What’s the point? Not like anyone will notice anyway. He takes his time getting dressed and then makes his way down the staircase and into the kitchen.</p><p>His parents are sitting at the table. His dad is reading the newspaper and his mom is typing furiously on her laptop. He says good morning and heads towards the coffee machine perched on the counter. His father grunts in greeting. His mom looks up.</p><p>“Morning, Mickey. I made some breakfast. Pancakes - your favorite.”</p><p>Pancakes aren’t his favorite anymore. He doesn’t care for them. He’s considers himself more of a waffle guy, now. He doesn’t bother to correct her, though. </p><p>“I’m good. Just going to have some coffee.”  He grabs his mug and leans against the counter. His mom goes back to typing. He wipes sleep from his eyes. Fuck, he’s tired. He wishes he could snap his fingers and get the day over with, crawl back into bed, and sleep. It’s Saturday tomorrow, maybe he’d allow himself a few extra hours in bed. Not like he has any plans, anyway. The idea of skipping school altogether is also appealing. He doubts anyone would even notice his absence.</p><p>“Eat some food, Mick. Coffee everyday for breakfast ain’t good for ya.” His father doesn’t look up from the paper when he addresses him. </p><p>Mickey doesn’t look up from his mug when he responds. “I’m not hungry.”</p><p>He hears the rustling of a newspaper and his mom slows her typing before she stops completely. The only noise Mickey can hear is the whirring of the coffee machine. He swallows but doesn’t falter. His dad is beside him then. A looming, dark presence to his left. He has coffee breath and suddenly Mickey isn’t craving the beverage so much anymore. </p><p>“Eat some breakfast, son. Your mother took the time to cook it so you will take the time to eat it.”</p><p>Mickey looks up at him now but he doesn’t respond.</p><p>“Terry, it’s fine-“</p><p>“Shut up, Laura.” His large hand is grasping Mickey’s bicep now. “You cooked a lovely breakfast. He shouldn’t be so ungrateful.”</p><p>Mickey doesn’t respond. Terry’s fingers dig painfully into his arm. His jaw tightens. Let go, he pleads internally. Please let go. A phone pings and Terry lets go, stepping away. Mickey resists the urge to rub his arm. Shaky hands pick up his mug and he takes a sip. His mother starts typing again. A few minutes pass.</p><p>“Terry, sweetheart, give Mickey a ride to school, yeah? Clouds are really dark, looks like it’s going to rain.”</p><p>She doesn’t look up from the laptop as she speaks. Mickey resists the urge to scoff. If there’s one thing his mother is good at, it’s pretending things just didn’t happen. Everything semi-negative gets swept under the rug. They have an image to uphold, after all. God forbid people ever find out about his father’s temper or his mother’s drinking problem. It’s always fine and dandy in the Milkovich house.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>His father is talking on the phone and the radio is turned down low. Mickey can’t help but acknowledge that his mother was right. It’s raining now. It’s raining hard and Mickey can’t remember the last time he’s seen downpour this bad in Chicago. He wishes he was back in bed. He doesn’t want to go to school. His father coughs and Mickey jumps. He’s tense. He wants this day over with. He wants to go home to a quiet house with just Fiona to talk to while he makes them both a snack. She’ll ask about his day and genuinely want to hear the answer. It‘s always the same but Fiona asks him everyday, regardless. It’s refreshing to talk to someone that actually seems to care.</p><p>There’s also Ian. He has waited inside everyday for Fiona to finish up ever since that afternoon a few weeks ago. They’ve never spoken before that day. Well, not actual conversation. He used to see Ian in the car when he’d walk Fiona to the door after she finished up for that day. He’d wave but Ian wouldn’t see him — or he would and just didn’t acknowledge it. Until one day Ian waved back. It wasn’t a very enthusiastic wave. Just a quick flick of his hand, but it was something. Another time, Ian has the window rolled down, and Mickey decided to say hey.</p><p>“Hi, Mickey.” Ian smiles at him.</p><p>That was usually all they said to each other before that day three weeks ago. Hi, hey, hello, you good? Nothing much beyond that. Ian’s short visits during the week are the most exciting aspect of Mickey’s life now. They go into the library and talk about their day. Sometimes they talk about the books. Sometimes Ian borrows one or two. He returns them after a while and Mickey listens intently while Ian talks about his favorite parts. The rain is getting heavier. Mickey’s wonders if it’s possible for rain to crack a windshield. The car slows to a halt and pulls up on the curb. They’re about fifteen minutes away from the school.</p><p>“You gotta get out here.” His father’s voice is gruff.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“You heard me on the phone, son. Paul’s car won’t start, he needs a ride to the office. I have to take a right here. Get out and walk.”</p><p>Mickey looks out the window and back at his dad. He has to be joking. “Dad, I’ll get soaked.”</p><p>His dad reaches over Mickey and shoves open the door. “Maybe you should get your license, Mick.”</p><p>Mickey’s mouth is agape as he unbuckles his seatbelt and grabs his backpack. He fucking hates his dad. His jacket is too light, the water will soak right through to his clothes. He slams the door when he gets out of the car and he doesn’t care. Fuck his dad. Fuck his fucking dad and fuck his car. Fuck his mom for not driving him. Fuck Mother Nature and her rain.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Class started nine minutes ago and Mickey isn’t there. Ian’s eyes flicker to his seat in the corner by the window, unoccupied. Mickey never misses a class. Nobody acknowledges it. Maybe he’s sick? He’ll find out today when he picks up Fiona. But Mickey seemed fine yesterday afternoon. His train of thought is derailed by a drowned Mickey entering the classroom. Ian can hear his classmates snickering. Mickey keeps his head down and heads straight for his seat.</p><p>“You’re late, Mr. Milkovich.” </p><p>Mickey slumps down on his chair, peeling his jacket off. A droplet of rainwater falls from his hair to his nose. He wipes it away. “I know. I can tell time.”</p><p>A chorus of small “ooooohs” and cackles fill the room. His English teacher raises an eyebrow and turns fully towards him. He can see Ian watching him. </p><p>“Do not speak to me like that, Mickey.”</p><p>Mickey throws his backpack on the ground, frustration and anger filling his body. His blood was boiling. He was mortified and cold and pissed off. He didn’t need her fucking shit. </p><p>“I’m late. I get it. Can’t you just give me a detention and get on with it?”</p><p>Ian was still watching him. His clothes were stuck to his skin. His classmates were jeering. He should have fucking stayed in bed.</p>
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